


Friends And Enemies

by Iclare



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt!d’Artagnan, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Injury, Retelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-01-05 18:30:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18371681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iclare/pseuds/Iclare
Summary: Retelling of episode one. D’Artagnan is injured after his battle with Athos and things go downhill from there.





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> I know I really should not be starting another fanfic when I have 2 sitting there needing updates. I promise they are coming! This is a short two-Shot that I wanted to write with obvious D’Artagnan whump.

It had all happened so fast. Or so it had seemed. The days had blurred together until he wasn’t sure how long it had been since his father’s death and the beginning of his quest for vengeance. 

He couldn’t even really remember how long it had been since he barged into the musketeers’ garrison declaring war on Athos and battling him. He was out of his depth, he realised that before he had even lowered his gun and drew his sword but grief and anger were powerful mistresses, capable of twisting your mind until you were blind to everything except them. 

The battle had ended quickly, not that he was surprised, and it was only after being cornered by the three experienced soldiers and watching Athos be dragged away by the red guards that the pain and fatigue hit him. He could feel the blood trickling down his forearm from where Athos’ sword had hit him until it reached his fingers and he stared at it, fascinated by the red-coated skin until he remembered where he was and what he was doing. He wiped his hand against the back of his breeches and pressed his arm against his side, hoping to stem any further blood flow until he had time to assess the wound. 

He felt suddenly lost. He had been so focused on finding this ‘Athos’ that had murdered his father. Now that the man had been taken to the Chatelet he didn’t know how to react. For a brief moment he felt relief that his father’s murderer was safely locked away and unable to harm anyone further, but a look over at the direction of the other two soldiers had his stomach dropping that something was very wrong. Was he really innocent? 

Before he had a chance to ask them anything Constance was tugging at his sleeve and bringing him back to her husband’s house. Sitting in the chair in front of the fire, he couldn’t really remember how he got there or how he managed to be sitting naked from the waist up talking to Monsieur Bonacieux. Although it hardly seemed like talking with how Bonacieux sneered down his nose at him and glared at his wife. 

Constance tried to wrap his ribs, the ache of which he felt burning deeply and he knew that they were at least cracked, if not broken. She tried but her skills were limited and he knew that the bandage would never hold. She glanced down at his arm as she wrapped and stared at the deep cut. 

‘How did you get that?’ She questioned, reaching a hand over to grab his arm but he pulled back and shook his head. 

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he croaked, trying desperately to hold back the tears he felt crawling up his throat, ‘I’ve failed my father. I can’t rest until I know the truth.’ 

‘That’s lucky because rest is out of the question,’ a voice called from the doorway as the two soldiers from earlier let themselves into the room.

‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ Bonacieux hissed, glaring at the musketeers before him. ‘You can’t just come into my home uninvited.’ 

‘Forgive us monsieur, we are only here to collect D’Artagnan. We need his help.’ 

Bonacieux turned his anger towards D’Artagnan who shrunk under the gaze. 

‘You have been here 5 minutes and already you have caused so much trouble. This will be affecting my business. God knows what my clients will think if they see soldiers and bedraggled boys coming in and out of my household,’ Bonacieux shouted, waving his arms around the room. Constance tried to quieten him but he glared in her direction and she stopped with a huff. 

‘Go,’ Constance spoke softly, helping D’Artagnan stand and handing him his bloodied shirt, ‘your possessions will be safe here for when you return.’ 

D’Artagnan smiled at her as he dressed, grabbing his doublet and his weapons belt as he left the room. 

Standing beside his horse outside, he breathed deeply and wrapped himself in his doublet and cloak. His arm was burning along with his ribs and he could feel himself starting to shiver from the cold. He tried to push it to the back of his mind as he saw the two experienced soldiers approaching him. 

‘Forgive us D’Artagnan but we really do need your help. Athos did not murder your father and he did not kill those other people. Something strange and disturbing it going on. Will you help us?’ The lighter skinned man spoke softly, his eyes gentle and caring as he grasped D’Artagnan’s shoulder and squeezed. The darker man stood behind him with a gruff expression on his face and D’Artagnan doubted he really had much of a choice. He simply nodded, not trusting his voice to come out.

‘Wonderful,’ the man squeezing his shoulder announced. ‘Well then, since we will be working together we should get aquatinted. My name is Aramis and this is Porthos. Never fear, he may look like a bear but he’s really rather lovely.’ 

D’Artagnan nodded at the introduction but one glance at Porthos had him doubting how ‘lovely’ he was. 

‘C’mon we’re wasting time,’ Porthos’ rough voice called out as he walked towards his own horse, climbing on and wrapping his cloak around him. The snow was getting heavier and colder and they were still in the city. Out in the country and the open roads with no shelter from the wind it was going to get much worse. Aramis thought the same as he glanced at D’Artagnan’s thin cloak with a tut and a shake of his head. That would not do him much longer. He made a mental note that once this fiasco was over he would see about rewarding the boy with some better clothes. 

‘You haven’t exactly dressed for a winter in Paris,’ Aramis spoke when they were just outside the city and heading towards the inn, sidling up beside D’Artagnan’s horse. He frowned as the boy shrugged and didn’t turn to face him. 

‘Not used to the weather I suppose,’ his voice was quiet and his throat sounded as though it didn’t want to give up the words. ‘Lupiac is never this cold and with the increased taxes we were struggling.’ 

Aramis nodded, taking the opportunity to look at D’Artagnan properly. He was holding himself stiffly in his saddle, his fingers holding tighter to the reigns than needed and his cheeks were getting flushed however whether that was from the wind chill or a fever Aramis did not know. 

‘Something I can help you with?’ D’Artagnan drawled, turning to face Aramis with a scowl. Aramis simply smirked and shook his head. 

‘Where do you learn to fight?’ Porthos called from Aramis’ other side, leaning over slightly to see passed his brother’s shoulder. 

‘My father,’ D’Artagnan answered, and God if that didn’t make him want to empty his stomach. 

‘What happened?’ Aramis asked, aware of the grief on D’Artagnan’s pale face and offering a small smile. 

D’Artagnan inhaled shakily to settle his nerves. He wasn’t a child. In fact he was now the head of the house. He needed to be braver. He explained the story to the soldiers as they trotted towards the inn; he could see the smoke billowing in the distance. Aramis and Porthos were grasped by the events that took place, both feeling sympathy for a young man, clearly no older than 19, who had so recently lost his father. 

‘Where was he killed?’ Porthos asked, adjusting his hat and knocking the snow from the top to the ground. 

‘Here,’ D’Artagnan answered, almost a whisper barely louder than the wind around them as they turned a corner and stood in front of the inn. 

‘Jesus,’ Porthos hissed, ‘We’re sorry, we didn’t know it happened here. Thought you’d just been in a fight with them.’ 

D’Artagnan just shook his head and jumped down from his horse, unable to say anything else lest his emotions betray him. His knees buckled slightly and he had to grip the saddle to remain standing as he felt a rush of pain through his ribs and the light headedness of blood loss.

‘You alright?’ Aramis was beside him suddenly and D’Artagnan was sure he had floated there for he had not heard footsteps. 

‘Yeah,’ he croaked, righting himself and heading towards the inn, ‘just been a long a day.’

‘Ain’t that the truth,’ Porthos sighed as he joined Aramis to walk to the inn. 

‘He’s injured,’ Aramis started softly towards Porthos, ‘and clearly hasn’t eaten in a while.’ Porthos nodded in non-committal agreement and shrugged. 

‘Yeah but Athos needs us now. Can’t be taking in strays. After this is over, yeah?’ Porthos replied, watching as D’Artagnan spoke to the innkeeper. Aramis huffed, the medic in him clearly unhappy, but nodded in agreement. No rest until Athos was safe. 

******************

The discovery of Cornet and his men had Porthos shouting curses through the trees and Aramis uttering prayers around his rosary and D’Artagnan wondered how two men so different could be such friends. He may have only just met them but he could feel how close they were. He guessed being soldiers helped; being a brother in arms and looking out for each other. D’Artagnan had no one to look out for him anymore; he sighed at the thought and fought back more tears. He needed to get a hold of his emotions and focus.

He felt suddenly too warm and suffocated and he rushed to remove his cloak. Not that it protected much from the weather but the material around his neck made him feel choked and trapped and he needed it gone. The cold air around him helped him come back to reality and he suppressed a shiver as Aramis stepped towards him. 

‘The men who did this killed your father as well,’ Aramis warned and he nodded in response. Aramis took a moment to look at him. 

‘Are you alright? You look flushed,’ Aramis questioned, pulling off a glove and moving to place his hand on D’Artagnan’s forehead. The younger man quickly stepped away from him with wide eyes. 

‘I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.’ 

‘Yeah, so you said,’ Porthos snorted from behind Aramis. ‘When was the last time you ate something? I’m worried this wind is going to take you away.’ 

D’Artagnan glared at him and Porthos laughed in response. Aramis used the distraction to plant his hand on D’Artagnan’s forehead before he realised what was happening. He quickly snapped his head away and moved to mount his horse, a look of betrayal in his eyes. He clicked his tongue and his horse started walking towards Paris, assuming that the two men would start following. 

‘He needs to rest,’ Aramis sighed at Porthos who was watching the boy moving away from them. ‘Definite fever, slight but going to get worse. You seen him at Bonacieux’s too; he’s too thin. And he looks tired. And I’m worried about those ribs.’ 

Porthos nodded in agreement and clapped his hand to his brother’s shoulder. 

‘I know you’re concerned ‘Mis, but Athos comes first. The kid’ll be fine for now. I promise when this is all over you can fix him,’ Porthos said around a reassuring smile. Aramis nodded thoughtfully before mounting his own horse and rushing to catch up with their charge. 

***************

It was only whenever they had freed Athos and they had invited him to the Wren for a celebratory drink did it hit him that he had done it. He had helped solve his father’s murder and he had helped clear a musketeer’s name as well. He felt a burst of pride in his chest for only a moment. He still had so much to worry about. Where was he going to live? He need a job, did he just go back to his farm? He was startled when a glass was set down in front of him. 

‘Good job,’ Athos said with a smile, however small. D’Artagnan retuned it and gripped the glass in his hand. 

‘Thank you,’ he replied with a salute of his glass, ‘I’m glad we were able to save you.’ 

Athos gave him a brief pat on the shoulder and a squeeze of his hand before he left them and sat at his table in the corner. D’Artagnan’s eyes followed him with a frown, his eyebrows furrowed. 

‘Don’t worry about him,’ Porthos huffed, taking his pack of cards out of his pocket and shuffling them, ‘he always does this. He’s a miserable soul.’ He spoke loud enough for Athos to hear him and reply with a hand gesture that had him guffawing. 

‘Fancy a game?’ Porthos asked with a glint in his eye, shuffling the cards between his skilled fingers. 

‘I don’t have much on me,’ D’Artagnan warned, reaching into his pocket and pulling out what coins he had to his name. 

‘That’ll do you,’ Porthos agreed with a smile. ‘I’ll let you keep the rest at Bonacieux’s.’ 

D’Artagnan frowned slightly in confusion before shrugging and focusing on the game. Now that he had sat down and the heat of the pub was soaking into his bones he somehow felt worse than he had for days. His arm felt hot to touch and he cursed himself for not having taken care of it. Granted he hadn’t exactly had the time but he knew what an untreated wound could do. His ribs were hurting him in his hunched over position and he squirmed in his seat, trying to find a more comfortable position. He could feel Athos’ eyes boring into his back and he refrained from turning and looking at him.

It took less than 30 minutes for Porthos to take all of the money available on the table and while D’Artagnan was sure that he had cheated somehow, his head was swimming and he couldn’t be certain. 

‘Another round?’ Porthos asked, pulling the coins into a pile on his side of the table and getting ready to deal the cards out. 

‘Nothing left for you to take,’ D’Artagnan smiled softly, showing his empty hands. He drank the rest of the wine in his glass and made to stand up. 

‘Do you have somewhere to stay?’ Aramis asked from beside him and D’Artagnan contemplated asking Porthos why he didn’t put a bell around the man’s neck so they knew when he was coming. 

‘Yes,’ D’Artagnan swallowed down the bile that he could feel in his chest, he really needed to lie down and eat something, ‘Madame Bonacieux has offered me lodging in her husband’s house.’ 

‘I bet she has,’ Porthos sniggered, downing the rest of the wine in his glass before refilling it. D’Artagnan scowled at him and grabbed his doublet. 

‘Lovely working with you gentlemen. If I stay in Paris, I am sure I will see you around, protecting the streets.’

D’Artagnan was out the door before they could say anything else and Aramis stood frowning at the exit. 

‘You’re worried. What’s wrong with him?’ Athos asked as he moved over to their table, setting his bottle of wine down and pulling Aramis into the seat beside him. 

‘Where do I even start?’ Aramis shook his head. ‘Fever, last I checked, he’s light headed, doesn’t know when he ate last, or slept for that matter. Possible broken ribs, no doubt black and blue under that shirt. Of course I’m worried. He’s a boy, Athos. A boy who just lost his father and doesn’t know where else to go or who to turn to.’ 

Athos nodded and squeezed Aramis’ upper arm. 

‘He will be fine. Madame Bonacieux will fix him up.’ He didn’t know quite how wrong he was.


	2. Chapter 2

When D’Artagnan finally reached the Bonacieux residence, after navigating the winding streets and taking too many wrong turns, he found Monsieur Bonacieux standing at the door blocking his entrance and his bag of meagre possessions lying in the snow before him. 

‘You cannot stay here. I have a reputation to uphold and I cannot have dirty young farmers ruining that.’

D’Artagnan’s eyes widened and he found himself almost struggling to breathe. 

‘Please, monsieur, I have nowhere else to go tonight. Please allow me to stay for tonight and I will leave tomorrow.’ 

‘No,’ Bonacieux huffed, stepping back and closing the door, ‘you have caused too much trouble for us already. Go and bother someone else.’ 

D’Artagnan honestly felt like the world was crashing around him and he almost pinched himself to make sure that he wasn’t having a nightmare. What was he to do now? Where could he go? For a brief moment he thought about heading back to the pub and requesting shelter with the musketeers as payment for his assistance but he pushed the thought out of his head immediately. 

For one, he had no idea where he was. The streets were all looking identical and he couldn’t tell which way was which through the dark and the snow. Secondly, even if he could find his way there he doubted they would want to help him. He had accused Athos of murder; no one forgave that so soon. And thirdly, his legs were definitely not going to carry him much further. 

He picked his bag up and headed towards the streets. He looked behind him but Bonacieux had already closed the door and there was no sign of Constance coming to save him. He was alone again. 

A million thoughts were rushing through his head and he tried to focus. He could feel his legs getting weaker and knew he had to find a place to rest and something to eat soon. He briefly considered going to the stable where he had left his horse and hiding there until morning but disregarded the thought. He would get caught and would probably be accused of being a horse thief knowing his luck. 

He walked slowly, placing one careful foot in front of the other, keeping his head down. The snow was heavier than before and he was struggling to seen in front of him. The only benefit of that was that the streets were deserted and he didn’t have to worry about a collision with anyone. He was so cold. He couldn’t remember a time he had been colder and he put his hands under his armpits to try and keep his fingers warm. 

He was so focused on not getting any colder that he didn’t notice anyone walking towards him until he bumped into a broad chest. He blinked in surprise and a flash of a blue cape caught his attention and he raised his head. His hope was dashed as although the men in front of him were Musketeers, they were not the particular set of soldiers he had hoped to see. 

‘And what do we have here?’ The one in the blue cape smirked, stepping around D’Artagnan so he was behind him and eyeing the bag over his shoulder. 

‘We’ve been getting a lot of complaints about street rats stealing valuables,’ the other man shrugged knowingly. It was obvious he was a recruit, the lack of cloak and pauldron giving his status away. 

‘Let’s have a look then. Need to make sure you haven’t stolen anything,’ the older soldier nodded, grabbing at D’Artagnan’s bag. D’Artagnan struggled with him briefly until the other man grabbed his arms and brought them behind his back, securing them with rope. D’Artagnan’s eyes flashed with stars the moment the soldier grabbed his injured arm and he stumbled to the side. 

‘Woah there! You’re not getting away that easily,’ the recruit laughed, holding D’Artagnan’s bound arms tightly. D’Artagnan shook his head to clear his vision and his thoughts. He wanted to explain his injury; that he wasn’t trying to escape them but he worried if he opened his mouth he would vomit.

‘Would you look at that!’ The musketeer preened, bringing his hand out of D’Artagnan’s bag and dangling an ornate crucifix from his fingers. ‘Where would a street urchin like you get something like this, hmm?’ 

‘It was my mother’s,’ D’Artagnan choked out, wringing his wrists in his bonds and wincing as the rope chafed his skin. 

‘I’m sure it was. And where is your mother so we can verify this?’ 

‘Dead. A long time ago. I’m afraid you will have to take my word for it.’ 

The musketeer laughed with a shake of his head and pushed the contents of the bag back in. 

‘Unfortunately it is not me you will have to convince. Captain Treville will address you tomorrow. Until then you can stay in our jail.’ 

D’Artagnan wanted to protest but the recruit spun him around and started marching him towards the Garrison and everything happened to quickly D’Artagnan couldn’t tell which way was up. 

Before he knew it he was led down a set of steps and pushed into small stone room. There was a torch outside the barred door but no other light for him to use. The recruit had the decency to cut the rope around his wrists before locking the door behind him. 

D’Artagnan shivered as the coolness of the room seeped into his bones and his legs felt like they could no longer support his weight. His knees buckled and he collapsed into a corner of the room, hissing as his ribs throbbed and his arm pulsed in time with his heartbeat. He felt too warm and too cold at the same time and knew that wasn’t a good sign.

He pulled his knees up against his chest and braced his ribs. He wanted to think of a way out of his predicament but his eyes closed on their own accord and he knew no more. 

************************************************************************************************************

The next morning found Athos and Porthos at their usual table sharing a basket of bread. Porthos looked up in concern when Aramis stormed towards them, throwing his weapons belt on the table and placing his hands on his hips. 

‘Bad night with your latest conquest?’ Porthos smirked, chewing his bread loudly with his mouth open. Athos shot him a glare. 

‘D’Artagnan is missing,’ Aramis huffed, pacing back and forth in front of his brothers. 

‘What do you mean, missing?’ Athos questioned, dropping his bread onto the table and wiping his hands on his breeches. 

‘I mean that Monsieur Bonacieux expressed his displeasure at our visit yesterday by turfing the boy out on his rear.’ 

Athos was about to reply when Treville appeared at the top of the stairs, motioning them to follow him to his office with a glare. 

‘He looks as happy as always,’ Porthos grumbled, finishing his breakfast off in one bite. The three soldiers followed their captain into his office, Aramis closing the door behind them. 

‘There have been reports of thieves in the market,’ Treville started, settling himself behind his desk. 

‘Yes so we have heard. Do you want us to go and investigate these claims?’ Athos spoke, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. 

‘No, Claude and Sebastian caught one of them last night. He’s down in the hold currently but I want you three to go and speak to him to find where the others are hiding.’ 

‘How do you know he is a thief?’ Porthos asked, stepping forward towards the desk when Treville pulled a bag out from behind him. 

‘He had this with him,’ Treville explained, emptying the bag onto the table and lifting the crucifix into the air. 

Athos nodded, his hands looking through the rest of the meagre contents. Clearly the owner of these items didn’t have many funds. The clothes were thin and threadbared and there was no money enclosed. 

Aramis lifted a folded piece of paper from the pile, opening it and reading it with a frown. His eyes widened and he looked from Porthos to Athos and back to the paper. Once word stood out above all others. D’Artagnan. 

‘That is no thief,’ Aramis hissed, thrusting the paper into Athos’ hands. ‘That’s the boy who helped save Athos’ life.’ 

Athos heard Porthos let out a distinctive growl at the revelation and he placed the paper back on the table. 

‘What claims do Claude and Sebastian have that this man is a thief? Did they allow him to explain?’ Athos’ clipped tone did nothing to hide his anger at the lack of justice in this case. 

‘I don’t know. They are too young and inexperienced and that is why I asked you to investigate.’ 

Aramis huffed, already halfway out the door before Treville had finished speaking. Athos and Porthos quickly followed. 

************************************************************************************************************

Athos marched forward to the barred door and demanded the guard open it. There was no hesitation and the door was flung open. Aramis pushed passed his friend and rushed into the room. 

‘D’Artagnan?’ He called, quietly stepping towards the boy. D’Artagnan had curled himself into the corner of the room, his knees brought up to his chest and his uninjured arm wrapped around his shins. He injured arm was limp at his side, his fingers twitching. He lifted his head from where it had rested on his knees and Aramis’ steps stopped suddenly when the boy’s eyes blinked owlishly at him. 

‘It’s Aramis,’ the soldier spoke softly, moving closer and kneeling down beside the trembling figure. 

‘Aramis?’ D’Artagnan croaked, blinking at the other man in an effort to clear his blurry vision. 

‘Yes it’s me. What are you doing down here? We will have to have a word about what you think are acceptable lodgings.’ 

D’Artagnan huffed a small laugh and turned towards the door. He could see Porthos and Athos standing in the doorway and the stern look on Athos’ face sent a shiver down his spine. 

‘I didn’t steal anything Aramis,’ D’Artagnan promised, looking imploringly at the older man. 

‘We know you didn’t. And Treville knows you didn’t. He has asked us to come down and let you out but I want you to come with me to the infirmary. I want to see your injuries,’ Aramis explained, pushing D’Artagnan’s hair away from his face and planting his hand on the boy’s forehead. He frowned and glanced back at his friends with a shake of his head. 

‘Aramis,’ D’Artagnan whispered, his eyes wide and watering and looking entirely too young, ‘I don’t feel well.’ 

Before Aramis could reply he watched in horror as D’Artagnan’s eyes rolled into the back of his head and he slumped against the wall. 

The Musketeers froze in the doorway as Aramis grabbed D’Artagnan by his shoulders. 

‘D’Artagnan!? Come on, lad,’ Aramis huffed, shaking D’Artagnan and resting a hand against his cheek. He felt a presence behind him and Athos crouched down beside him. 

‘What’s the matter with him?’ 

‘Where do I start? I need to get him to the infirmary. Fever is too high but he’s shivering. Definitely something more going on than some busted ribs and exhaustion.’ 

Aramis patted his way down D’Artagnan’s body, feeling the bones in his shoulders and ribs, ignoring the flinch D’Artagnan gave him when his rib cage shifted under his ministrations. 

‘Broken ribs definitely.’ 

He ran his hands down D’Artagnan’s arms and stopped when D’Artagnan flinched and whimpered and attempted to move his right arm away from Aramis. Aramis quickly let go and pushed the sleeve of the boy’s jacket and shirt up and huffed at the raw and weeping wound. 

‘Oh you stupid boy.’ 

Aramis shook his head and huffed in frustration. 

‘I gave him that,’ Athos stated, his face something akin to horror. 

‘Athos-’ Aramis started but was cut off when the older soldier jumped to his feet and marched from the room. 

‘Well, that’s went well,’ Porthos nodded, crouching down in Athos’ abandoned spot. 

‘Indeed. Porthos, would you mind?’

Porthos sighed loudly and looked at Aramis from the corner of his eyes. 

‘Sometimes I think you lot just keep me around for the muscle.’

‘Well we were going to tell you but didn’t want to hurt your feelings.’ 

Porthos smirked as he placed one arm under D’Artagnan’s limp knees and another under his trembling shoulders and hoisted him into the air. 

The two soldiers made quick work of leaving the dank dungeon and settling their patient into the clean infirmary, stripping him of his damp clothes and covering him with several blankets. 

‘He’s so thin,’ Porthos growled, throwing himself into a chair beside the bed. He glared at the bruised rib cage of their young friend as though his gaze would right the wrongs that had befallen him. 

‘I know, dear Porthos. But a few meals of Serge’s fine cuisine well set him right,’ Aramis explained with a soft smile, sitting on the bed beside D’Artagnan and looking carefully at the weeping wound on the boy’s arm. 

‘I wish he had have come to me with this when it happened. Or at least have kept it clean.’ 

‘How was he going to do that when he was too busy gallivanting across half of France in order to save my life.’ 

Aramis and Porthos looked up to see Athos standing in the doorway, his uniform askew and his face like thunder. 

‘Where did you disappear to?’ Porthos called from the other side of D’Artagnan’s bed, leaning over and dipping a cloth into the cool water on the table and placing it on the boy’s head. He may not be a medic but he had watched Aramis work enough times to know the basics. 

‘To right a few wrongs. Treville has been informed of the health of our prisoner, or lack thereof, and Sebastian and Claude will be duly reprimanded. They should have at least had the sense to check the boy for injuries. Stupid.’ 

Aramis and Porthos shared a knowing look across the unconscious patient. It had been a while since Athos has been so passionate about anything, let alone an orphaned Gascon. 

‘Rightly so. Now, since you are here, make yourself useful and get me the things I need to mend this wound. The word stupid does not just apply to our fellow soldiers.’ 

With his instruments in hand, Aramis began cleaning and stitching D’Artagnan’s wound, holding his still when he tried to pull away from the wine or the needle piercing his skin. He had just begun to bandage the wound when D’Artagnan let out a soft moan and fluttered his eyes open. 

‘Welcome back lad. Worried you were going to miss all the fun? Don’t worry, Aramis hasn’t even started preparing his lecture yet so you’ve plenty of time for that.’ 

D’Artagnan blinked in confusion as he looked around the room, utterly confused as to how he arrived there. The last thing he remembered was being accused of being a thief and being brought to the Garrison. He was sure he was still there but this was certainly not the cell he had been placed in. 

‘Do you have a death wish?’ 

D’Artagnan started at the sudden interruption and he stared at the angry soldier at the foot of his bed. 

‘I-I’m sorry?’ D’Artagnan managed to croak out, coughing to clear his throat and wishing he couldn’t feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment at how weak he must look. 

‘Apology accepted. However, my friend asked you a very important question. Do you have a death wish? Why did you not ask us to see to your wounds? Why were you wandering the streets being accused of being a thief? Why did you not go to your lodgings as agreed?’ Aramis shot the questions at his patient, one after the other without giving him time to answer and Athos held his hand up to stop him. 

‘D’Artagnan,’ Athos started, his voice calm but his face the opposite, ‘We would have helped. Why wouldn’t you have asked us?’ 

‘I didn’t want to be a burden,’ D’Artagnan shrugged, hissing as he felt his ribs shift. ‘I did have lodgings, I promise, but Monsieur Bonaceiux made it clear that I was not welcome. I didn’t steal anything. Everything I have in that bag is everything that I have. I swear to you. The crucifix was my mother’s. It is all I have left from her. I couldn’t bear to leave it in Lupiac.’ 

‘You are an idiot,’ Porthos sighed from beside him and D’Artagnan rolled his head on the pillow until he was facing the dark skinned soldier. 

‘I’m an idiot?’ 

‘I’m glad you agree. I took all your money. Why didn’t you say anything? If I’d have known I wouldn’t have cheated quite so well.’ 

D’Artagnan smiled at the admission, swallowing down a wave of nausea that rushed over him. He took a moment to collect his thoughts but before he could speak them aloud Athos interrupted. 

‘D’Artagnan. You saved my life. The least I could have done was make sure that you were rewarded for your bravery and that your wounds were seen to before you left us. For that I am sorry. And I will speak to Monsieur Bonacieux.’ With that Athos nodded at the boy with a small smile and left the room. 

‘I think he likes you,’ Aramis smirked, holding out a glass of water to D’Artagnan. 

‘I would hate to see what he would be like if he didn’t like me,’ D’Artagnan huffed, drinking the water and shuddering at the bitter taste. He glared accusingly at Aramis. ‘This is drugged.’ 

‘It’s hardly drugged, lad. A pain reliever and a mild sedative to help you sleep. You’ve been through a lot the last few days and I would be remiss as a medic if I didn’t see that your wounds were properly seen to and that you were fed and watered before you leave us.’ 

D’Artagnan thought for a moment before drinking the rest of the water. 

‘Good boy. Now sleep. We’ll be here when you wake up.’ 

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes at Aramis but allowed his heavy eyelids to close. He didn’t remember falling asleep. 

‘I’ll see about collecting those new clothes you ordered him. And I’ll ask Serge to have some broth ready,’ Porthos nodded, standing up and stretching until his bones clicked. 

‘Thank you brother. I will stay here,’ Aramis stated, replacing the cloth on D’Artagnan’s head with a cooler one and reclining back in the wooden chair, his legs resting on the soft bed. He placed his hat over his face and sighed. It was going to be a long night.


End file.
